Life in the Grey Nunnery at Montreal. Sarah J. Richardson
many nights did I lie awake pondering this question, and resolving to make the effort. I was, of course, too young to know that it was only by shrewd guessing, and a general knowledge of human nature, that he was enabled to tell my thoughts so correctly.
"Now," said he, "for indulging these dreadful thoughts, I shall take you back to the devil, and give you up to him." I was frightened before; but I have no words to describe my feelings when he again led me back, and left me beside the image, saying, as he closed the door, "If the devil groans three times, and the Lord does not speak, you must stay here until to-morrow at this time." I trembled so that I could hardly stand, and when, after a few moments, a sound like a groan fell upon my ears, I shrieked in the extremity of terror.
[Footnote: Cioui, formerly a Benedictine Monk, giving an account of his imprisonment at Rome, after his conversion says:—
"One evening, after listening to a discourse filled with dark images of death, I returned to my room, and found the light set upon the ground. I took it up and approached the table to place it there, but what was my horror and consternation at beholding spread out upon it, a whitened skeleton! Before the reader can comprehend my dismay, it is necessary he should reflect for a moment on the peculiarities of childhood, especially in a Romish country, where children are seldom spoken to except in superstitious language, whether by their parents or teachers: and domestics adopt the same style to answer their own purposes, menacing their disobedient charges with hobgoblins, phantoms and witches. Such images as these make a profound impression on tender minds, leaving a panic terror which the reasoning of after years is often unable entirely to efface. There can be no doubt but that this pernicious habit, is the fruit of the noxious plant fostered in the Vatican. Rising generations must be brought up in superstitious terror, in order to render them susceptible to every kind of absurdity; for this terror is the powerful spring, employed by the priests and friars, to move at their pleasure families, cities, provinces, nations. Although in families of the higher order, this method of alarming infancy is much discountenanced, nevertheless, it is impossible but that it should in some degree prevail in the nursery. Nor was it probable that I should escape this infections malady, having passed my whole days in an atmosphere, charged more than any other with that impure miasma priest-craft."]
Then immediately I heard the question, and it seemed to come from the figure of Christ, "Will you obey? Will you leave off sin?" I answered in the affirmative as well as I could, for the convulsive sobs that shook my frame almost stopped my utterance. I now know that when the priest left me, he placed himself, or an assistant, behind a curtain close to the images, and it was his voice that I heard. But I was then too young to detect their treacherous practices and deceitful ways.
On being taken back to the Superior, I was immediately attacked with severe illness, and had fits all night. It seemed to me that I could see that image of the devil everywhere. If I closed my eyes, I thought I could feel him on my bed, pressing on my breast, and he was so heavy I could scarcely breathe. I was very sick, and suffered much bodily pain, but the tortures of an excited imagination were greater by far, and harder to bear than any physical suffering. For long years after, that image haunted my dreams, and even now I often, in sleep, live over again the terrors of that fearful scene. I was sick a long time; how long I do not know; but I became so weak I could not raise myself in bed, and they had an apparatus affixed to the wall to raise me with. For several days I took no nourishment, except a teaspoonful of brandy and water which was given me as often as I could take it I continued to have fits every day for more than two years, nor did I ever entirely recover from the effects of that fright. Even now, though years have passed away, a little excitement or a sudden shock, will sometimes throw me into one of those fits.
CHAPTER IV. — A SLAVE FOR LIFE.
During this illness I was placed under the care of an Abbess whom they called St. Bridget. There were many other Abbesses in the convent, but she was the principal one, and had the care of all the clothing. If the others wished for clean clothes, they were obliged to go to her for them. In that way I saw them all, but did not learn their names. They approached me and looked at me, but seldom spoke. This I thought very strange, but I now know they dared not speak. One day an Abbess came to my bed, and after standing a few moments with the tears silently flowing down her cheeks, asked me if I had a mother. I told her I had not, and I began to weep most bitterly. I was very weak, and the question recalled to my mind the time when I shared a father's love, and enjoyed my liberty. Then, I could go and come as I chose, but now, a slave for life, I could have no will of my own, I must go at bidding, and come at command. This, I am well aware, may seem to some extravagant language; but I use the right word. I was, literally, a slave; and of all kinds of slavery, that which exists in a convent is the worst. I say, THE WORST, because the story of wrong and outrage which occasionally finds its way to the public ear, is not generally believed. You pity the poor black man who bends beneath the scourge of southern bondage, for the tale comes to you from those who have seen his tears and heard his groans. But you have no tears, no prayers, no efforts for the poor helpless nun who toils and dies beneath the heartless cruelty of an equally oppressive task-master. No; for her you have no sympathy, for you do not believe her word. Within those precincts of cruelty, no visitor is ever admitted. No curious eye may witness the secrets of their prison-house. Consequently, there is no one to bear direct testimony to the truth of her statements. Even now, methinks, I see your haughty brow contract, and your lip curl with scorn, as with supreme contempt you throw down these pages and exclaim, "'Tis all a fiction. Just got up to make money. No proof that it is true." No proof do you say? O, that the strong arm of the law would interpose in our behalf!—that some American Napoleon would come forth, and break open those prison doors, and drag forth to the light of day those hidden instruments of torture! There would then be proof enough to satisfy the most incredulous, that, so far from being exaggerated, the half has not been told. Sons of America! Will you not arise in your might, and demand that these convent doors be opened, and "the oppressed" allowed to "go free"? Or if this be denied, sweep from the fair earth, the black-hearted wretches who dare, in the very face of heaven, to commit such fearful outrages upon helpless, suffering humanity? How long—O how long will you suffer these dens of iniquity to remain unopened? How long permit this system of priestly cruelty to continue?
But I am wandering from my story. Would that I might forever wander from it—that I might at once blot from memory's page, the fearful recollection that must follow me to my grave! Yet, painful as it is to rehearse the past, if I can but awaken your sympathy for other sufferers, if I can but excite you to efforts for their deliverance, it is all I ask. I shall have my reward. But to return to my story.
The Abbess saw how deeply I was grieved, and immediately left the room. St. Bridget told me not to cry, for she would be a mother to me as long as I remained with her, and she was true to her promise. Another sister, who sometimes came to my room, I believe was crazy. She would run up to my bed, put her hand on me, and burst into a loud and hearty laugh. This she repeated as often as she came, and I told the Abbess one day, I did wish that sister would not come to see me, for she acted so strange, I was afraid of her. She replied, "do not care for her; she always does just so, but we do not mind her; you must be careful what you say," she continued, "for if you speak of her before any of the sisters, they may get you into trouble."
When I began to get better, I had a sharp appetite for food, and was hungry a great part of the time. One of the sisters used to bring me a piece of bread concealed under her cape and hide it under my pillow. How she obtained it, I do not know, unless she saved it from her own allowance. It was very easy for her to hide it in this way, for the nuns always walk with one hand under their cape and the other by the side. Truly, in this instance, "bread eaten in secret" was "pleasant." Of all the luxuries I ever tasted, those stolen bits of bread were the sweetest.
During my illness I thought a great deal about my father, and wondered why he did not come to see me, as he had promised. I used to cry for him in my sleep, and very often awoke in tears. St. Bridget sought in every possible way to make me forget him, and the priest would tell me that I need not think so much